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bustled into the café. Tiffany stretched out her legs. Not too bad a colour, a very milky tan but pale compared to the locals’ legs. Surf shop guy’s legs...Tiffany stopped herself short.
    That man had washed her face like a child’s.

    Tiffany drove inland to the larger centre of Kandala that afternoon. She needed a proper sunhat and some breakfast supplies, which the small Birrigai store didn’t stock. Tomorrow she’d eat in her room so as to mentally prepare for the kissing course. Plus at some stage last night she’d promised Fleur she’d find her a suitable shade of lipstick, something pinker and less garish to go with her more subdued frocks.
    And after that humiliating embarrassment this morning she definitely didn’t want to run into surf shop guy. How could she ever look him in the face? She’d have a late lunch and poke about in the shops and craft galleries. Better have dinner there as well, to be on the safe side.

Chapter Three
    ‘Welcome, welcome Ms Holland,’ cried Fiorella O’Loughlin as soon as Tiffany set foot in the reception area of The Kissing College; it was really the front entrance foyer of a large weatherboard beach house. Ms O’Loughlin had deftly adapted it to her business needs by adding a desk and chair, framed diplomas hung on the wall beside photographs of satisfied clients lolling about on piles of cushions.
    ‘I see you’ve brought your nesting materials. Excellent. It’s important to feel comfortable and relaxed. Call me Fiorella.’
    The face was the one from the website and the magazine. Fiorella had gained a few, no, a lot of kilos since those photos were taken. She wore the same warm smile, and the dress was the same too—a loose-fitting purple tent of Indian cotton. Big shiny hoop earrings dangled amidst a mass of black hair streaked with silver.
    Tiffany smiled, gripping her pillow and quilt a little tighter. Relax? Her hands were so clammy they’d be leaving wet handprints on her nesting materials.
    ‘Now,’ said Fiorella. The hoops swung gently against her cheeks. ‘Would you like to choose another name? Some people prefer to use an alias; it makes them feel able to let go and enjoy themselves. It’s entirely up to you.’ She looked up abruptly and smiled.
    An alias! What a good idea. But what? Tiffany stared blankly back at Fiorella’s expectant face.
    ‘I’m not sure. I would...but...Marianne,’ she blurted. ‘Call me Marianne.’
    ‘Lovely. Marianne, you are.’
    Fiorella stood up and headed down a passage leading into the house. Tiffany followed. She’d be a Marianne for the day, see if it suited her better.
    ‘The Ladies,’ said Fiorella as they passed a door with a woman’s smiling face painted on it. The puckered lips were red and luscious. Just like the real Marianne’s.
    Fiorella flung another door open and ushered her into a larger room in which a group of people were standing about eyeing each other with unease. Nesting materials lay at their feet. One man had a rolled up sleeping bag. What was he expecting to do in that? And with whom?
    ‘Everyone, meet Marianne,’ cried Fiorella.
    ‘Hello Marianne,’ they chorused obediently.
    ‘Hello,’ she murmured and raised a smile contorted and strangled by nerves.
    ‘I’m Domenic.’
    A confident young man with a shock of curly black hair stepped forward to offer his hand. His wide jaw housed large horse-like teeth which his average sized lips barely managed to cover. He held her fingers a fraction too long.
    ‘Josie,’ said a rotund redhead who should not have worn hipster anything but had, and topped her jeans with a cropped t-shirt. ‘This is Wanda.’
    Wanda was slim and pretty with a nose ring and an eyebrow piercing. What if her tongue was pierced? Ultra cool. Black jeans and singlet top. A tattoo coiled around her bicep but Tiffany couldn’t make out what it was. Barbed wire?
    ‘Andrew,’ said the man with the sleeping bag and gave her a wave. He was almost handsome, but missed